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“At the foot of an isolated tree, instead of the little bindweed with its white flower, may sometimes be found the beautifully climbing convolvulus major, of all the lovely colors that can be imagined.

“Sweet peas fasten their tendrils to the bushes, and cover them with the deliciously-scented white, rose-color, or white and violet butterflies.”

“It affords me immense pleasure to fix upon a wild-rose in the hedge, and graft upon it red and white cultivated roses, sometimes single roses of a magnificent golden yellow, then large Provence roses, or others variegated with red and white.”

“The rivulets in our neighborhood do not produce on their banks these forget-me-nots, with their blue flowers, with which the rivulet of my garden is adorned; I mean to save the seed, and scatter it in my walks.”

“I have observed two young wild quince trees in the nearest wood; next spring I will engraft upon them two of the best kinds of pears.”

“And then, how I enjoy beforehand and in imagination, the pleasure and surprise which the solitary stroller will experience when he meets in his rambles with those beautiful flowers and these delicious fruits!”

“This fancy of mine may, one day or another, cause some learned botanist who is herborising in these parts a hundred years hence, to print a stupid and startling system. All these beautiful flowers will have become common in the country, and will give it an aspect peculiar to itself; and, perhaps, chance or the wind will cast a few of the seeds or some of them amidst the grass which shall cover my forgotten grave!”

This was the end of the chapter, and then there was a vignette, a very pretty one, of a cross-marked, grass-bound grave.

Some books, generally grown-up ones, put things into your head with a sort of rush, and now it suddenly rushed into mine–“That’s what I’ll be! I can think of a name hereafter–but that’s what I’ll do. I’ll take seeds and cuttings, and off-shoots from our garden, and set them in waste-places, and hedges, and fields, and I’ll make an Earthly Paradise of Mary’s Meadow.”

CHAPTER VI.

The only difficulty about my part was to find a name for it. I might have taken the name of the man who wrote the book–it is Alphonse Karr,–just as Arthur was going to be called John Parkinson. But I am a girl, so it seemed silly to take a man’s name. And I wanted some kind of title, too, like King’s Apothecary and Herbarist, or Weeding Woman, and Alphonse Karr does not seem to have had any by-name of that sort.

I had put Adela’s bonnet on my head to carry it safely, and was still sitting thinking, when the others burst into the library.

Arthur was first, waving a sheet of paper; but when Adela saw the bonnet, she caught hold of his arm and pushed forward.

“Oh, it’s sweet! Mary, dear, you’re an angel. You couldn’t be better if you were a real milliner and lived in Paris. I’m sure you couldn’t.”

“Mary,” said Arthur, “remove that bonnet, which by no means becomes you, and let Adela take it into a corner and gibber over it to herself. I want you to hear this.”

“You generally do want the platform,” I said, laughing. “Adela, I am very glad you like it. To-morrow, if I can find a bit of pink tissue-paper, I think I could gum on little pleats round the edge of the strings as a finish.”

I did not mind how gaudily I dressed the part of Weeding Woman now.

“You are good. Mary. It will make it simply perfect; and, kilts don’t you think? Not box pleats?”

Arthur groaned.

“You shall have which you like, dear. Now, Arthur, what is it?”

Arthur shook out his paper, gave it a flap with the back of his hand, as you do with letters when you are acting, and said–“It’s to Mother, and when she gets it, she’ll be a good deal astonished, I fancy.”